I think I startled myself as much as the rest of my house tonight. When I subtly announced that I leave this place in scarcely a month I experienced some sort of bastard hybrid of adrenaline rush and severe projectile nausea.
I leave my island in just over a month.
Again.
And I have no idea when I'll be back.
Again.
So if I've been here before why does it freak me out so much this time?
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
The space between choice and chance is measured differently by everyone. For some of you there is no space. For me it is wide and always has been.
Only their words make me doubt that gap.
Their words and their eyes.
Throughout this twisted ride I have never seen choices.
No crossroads. No rock-bottom. No yellow wood.
I am as unapologetic as my uncertainty allows.
Regret is exclusively directed toward my vulnerability to commentary. Whether commending or condemning you snag my flesh and spur me on. Motivated far too much by spite and expectation.
Show me my choices that I might trade your ignorance for insight.
Or see my path and stop fucking my balance.
Only their words make me doubt that gap.
Their words and their eyes.
Throughout this twisted ride I have never seen choices.
No crossroads. No rock-bottom. No yellow wood.
I am as unapologetic as my uncertainty allows.
Regret is exclusively directed toward my vulnerability to commentary. Whether commending or condemning you snag my flesh and spur me on. Motivated far too much by spite and expectation.
Show me my choices that I might trade your ignorance for insight.
Or see my path and stop fucking my balance.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Thicker Than Water
I just stumbled across a poem I wrote when I was 17. The class assignment was to write a little verse about love and recite it to the room. This one caused the teacher to double over and call me a "sick son of a bitch". Gotta love invoking profanity from authority figures...
*My darling dear, or should I say, my former eyes delight
Assuredly it pains my heart to send you off in flight
And though, at first, my heart did fear I'd never find your equal
My soul now revels in the joy that I have found your sequel
You see, my darling, 'twas not you whose spell had me enslaved
Though sweet, you are, and charming it is simply love I crave
So now, my dear, I've found new love to woo with gentle whisper
And for that love I must thank you
For I've just met your sister*
That counts as a love poem, right?
*My darling dear, or should I say, my former eyes delight
Assuredly it pains my heart to send you off in flight
And though, at first, my heart did fear I'd never find your equal
My soul now revels in the joy that I have found your sequel
You see, my darling, 'twas not you whose spell had me enslaved
Though sweet, you are, and charming it is simply love I crave
So now, my dear, I've found new love to woo with gentle whisper
And for that love I must thank you
For I've just met your sister*
That counts as a love poem, right?
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Sagittarius:
You'll compete with the Devil for your immortal soul in a midnight game of Scrabble, and win handily when he can only think of creepy, depressing Latin words.
(I want to marry TheOnion and bear its ungodly children)
(I want to marry TheOnion and bear its ungodly children)
Monday, December 08, 2003
Blue light, pale, flickers across your face in twisted premonition. If I knew, now, how to read the flashing I don't believe this act will have played out any different. Revelation comes far too late for any less time to be wasted.
But his picture brings words to resolution. Words will make this concrete. This flickering blue casts understanding on your oblivious frame, curled in fetal slumber.
You sleep sound like a child...
even when you're awake.
But his picture brings words to resolution. Words will make this concrete. This flickering blue casts understanding on your oblivious frame, curled in fetal slumber.
You sleep sound like a child...
even when you're awake.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Please Welcome...
There's been a lot of talk about this kat...
maybe too much talk.
This kat is not a rebel kat.
This kat is Nicholas, bloody Nicholas.
maybe too much talk.
This kat is not a rebel kat.
This kat is Nicholas, bloody Nicholas.
Monday, December 01, 2003
14 hours of road-tripping this weekend has given to me the priceless gifts of a permanently cricked neck, acute numbness of the arse, and a new album hoisted among the ranks of my alltime favorite discs.
There's nothing quite like a weekend in rural Newfoundland spent playing " 5th-rate poetry set to 6th-rate music" to sear and, well, urinate on a man's love for music. Burlington was the town (mayhaps even village) whose church invited us out for the weekend to provide sonic backdrop for their worship of everyone's favorite triune deity. The weekend itself was nothing terribly noteworthy beyond my learning how to pray angrily with my guitar. The important episode was the 7 hour trip home where I received the healing touch of Matt Slocum, boy genius.
If you have not already done so I suggest, yea even demand, that each and every one of you acquire a copy of Sixpence None The Richer's self-titled album. If at all possible make sure your copy was pressed before the addition of "There She Goes" and has enough scratches on the back to completely remove any trace of "Kiss Me" (if not, the "skip" and "stop" buttons on your player will more than do the trick).
This album now belongs to an exclusive grouping of compositions I call my "Healing Discs". Music that makes the world a better place. Well...my world, at least. Also appearing on this list are Fiona Apple's "Tidal" and Over The Rhine's "Good Dog Bad Dog".
Buy them.
Hear them.
Love them.
Love me for pimping them.
Repeat.
(it should also be mentioned that, though the official theme of the weekend was PhatFish's "Heavenbound", the unofficial and vastly superior themesong adopted by us Protege dwellers was "Get Your Hands Off My Woman" by The Darkness--a song that makes me love Jesus more than any other song from that weekend)
There's nothing quite like a weekend in rural Newfoundland spent playing " 5th-rate poetry set to 6th-rate music" to sear and, well, urinate on a man's love for music. Burlington was the town (mayhaps even village) whose church invited us out for the weekend to provide sonic backdrop for their worship of everyone's favorite triune deity. The weekend itself was nothing terribly noteworthy beyond my learning how to pray angrily with my guitar. The important episode was the 7 hour trip home where I received the healing touch of Matt Slocum, boy genius.
If you have not already done so I suggest, yea even demand, that each and every one of you acquire a copy of Sixpence None The Richer's self-titled album. If at all possible make sure your copy was pressed before the addition of "There She Goes" and has enough scratches on the back to completely remove any trace of "Kiss Me" (if not, the "skip" and "stop" buttons on your player will more than do the trick).
This album now belongs to an exclusive grouping of compositions I call my "Healing Discs". Music that makes the world a better place. Well...my world, at least. Also appearing on this list are Fiona Apple's "Tidal" and Over The Rhine's "Good Dog Bad Dog".
Buy them.
Hear them.
Love them.
Love me for pimping them.
Repeat.
(it should also be mentioned that, though the official theme of the weekend was PhatFish's "Heavenbound", the unofficial and vastly superior themesong adopted by us Protege dwellers was "Get Your Hands Off My Woman" by The Darkness--a song that makes me love Jesus more than any other song from that weekend)
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